


The Course of Boundaries

by cakeisnotpie



Series: Sexuality Series [8]
Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Blood and Violence, Clint Barton Sings, F/M, Group Sex, Gun Violence, James Bucky and The Soldier, Kidnapping, M/M, Mind Control Aftermath & Recovery, Multi, Multiple Partners, Multiple Personalities, POV Alternating, Polyamory, Torture, Unconventional Format, Violence, not really but I"m not sure what to call it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-22
Updated: 2019-02-22
Packaged: 2019-11-02 02:17:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17879216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cakeisnotpie/pseuds/cakeisnotpie
Summary: Bucky has been in love with Steve Rogers forever.James loved Natasha so much he let her go.The Soldier had his Sniper, the man he couldn't remember who meant everything to him.This is their story and the complicated dance they do to discover just what it means to love more than one person.An experimental piece in form and P.O.V. that looks at polyamory through the eyes of Bucky/James/The Soldier and his relationship/s with Steve, Natasha, and Clint.





	The Course of Boundaries

**Author's Note:**

> For those of you who follow me on twitter, this is the story that sprang fully formed and consumed my waking life for nine days. I've long thought about writing a sexuality series entry on polyamory and have even tossed around the idea of Steve/Bucky/Nat/Clint, but I cannot honestly say what the impetuous was for this very experimental piece. I just let my muse have full reign and wrote what the voices demanded. 
> 
> The headers are a way to shift point of view and the lines interrupt those sections further so I can play with form and style. I also got to manipulate verb tense (watch for the parts that are present as opposed to past) and interject voices with centered bold type. It's been fun, overwhelming, exhausting, and one of the best creative experiences I've had in a long time. Also, the repetition of certain phrases and the use of duplicate sentence form is purposeful. 
> 
> Be warned. There are very dark, very violent parts here. Angst and worry and hurt. Self-doubt and talk about past mind control and some boneheaded decisions. But there's also love and laughter and people finding each other, accepting them as they are. 
> 
> I wanted to explore polyamory in a way that was an organic outgrowth of people coming together in a myriad of ways. I hope I managed to do these characters justice. Bucky, James, and The Soldier especially need some unconditional love.

Nothing has changed. Except for the course of boundaries,

the line of forests, coasts, deserts and glaciers.

Amid these landscapes traipses the soul,

disappears, comes back, draws nearer, moves away,

alien to itself, elusive, at times certain, at others uncertain of its own existence,

while the body is and is and is

and has no place of its own.

_“Tortures” Wislawa Szymborska_

 

 

* * *

 

# BEFORE

* * *

 

## (STEVE)

 

 Falling in love with little Stevie Rogers was the easiest thing he ever did.  The moment Bucky laid eyes on the scrawny kid with steely blue eyes, he’d felt the connection spring fully formed, a ribbon like the one in Becca’s hair, holding back the silky strands of emotion and tying them together in a neat bow. A spitfire whose body just wasn’t built to contain his larger-than-life spirit, Steve crashed into Bucky’s life, becoming the pillar around which Bucky’s every waking thought was built, careening into his heart and expanding to fill every inch. 

 

At first, Bucky tried to keep the scrappy little shit out of trouble, but when it was clear that was a hopeless cause, he became Steve’s partner-in-crime, the tall imposing figure over Steve’s shoulder. For Steve, he worked a second job, spent his money on oranges, took out the nice girls Steve was always pressing on him. At night, Bucky lay next to Steve, his front to Steve’s back, curled around him, never quite touching but close enough to share his warmth. The bond between them grew, yet Bucky never spoke the words, never laid a hand on Steve in any way that wasn’t brotherly. Truth was, if Steve had asked, Bucky would have done just about anything including dropping to his knees and worshipping the ground Steve walked on for nothing more than a brush of his hand. 

 

But Steve never asked.

 

So Bucky joined the army, shipping out before the ribbon tightened, and he was strangled by his love for Steve Rogers. He waved goodbye, boarded the ship, and didn’t look back even though he knew there was a little guy standing on the pier, right next to his mom and his sister. Instead, Bucky went to Zola’s table and laid there while his body was flayed open -- sliced, moved and rearranged to HYDRA’s liking -- happy in the knowledge that Steve was safe.

 

* * *

 

 

“Buck, I…” 

 

Steve’s hand reached out but stopped short of Bucky’s shoulder; he pulled back as if scalded by the look in Bucky’s eyes.

 

“What the hell, Steve?  I ship off and you go and do something stupid like volunteer for some crazy experiment?  What were you thinking?”

 

White hot emotion bubbled up in his throat, burning the words as they rose up and out of his mouth.

 

“I wasn’t gonna let you fight my battles for me, Buck. I had to do something.”

 

So tall. So big.  This wasn’t the Steve he knew, the guy he’d left behind.

 

“Right, so you let them put you in a fucking machine and give you some serum? How do I know you’re really Steve Rogers at all?”

 

He didn’t know, couldn’t trust his own eyes.  Damn it, Steve was supposed to be home, safe and sound in Brooklyn not here in the middle of a God-be-damned mud pit of a bloody war.

 

“It’s me, Buck. I promise.”

 

That hand again (not long delicate artist fingers, but thicker, a fighter’s grasp). Bucky closed his eyes and held perfectly still as one tip traced the line of his jaw, bumping over scruffy stubble. A trail of fire, that one touch, too much, not enough. Never enough.

 

“I don’t … I can’t …”

 

More fingers, flat palm cradling his cheek, he squeezed his eyes shut ‘lest Steve sees the truth writ large in their depths.

 

“I know, it’s a lot to take in ....”

 

A tremulous breath, he clenched his hands to keep them from fisting into that ridiculous costume and dragging the damn fool closer or pushing him away. He couldn’t have this.  Not now. Not ever.  He wasn’t Bucky Barnes anymore; he was whatever Zola had made him. Slowly he stepped back, let the icy cold absence of Steve’s touch seep into his soul.

 

“Okay.” He heaved a long sigh.  “I’m still pissed, you know.  I leave you alone for five minutes and look what happens.”

 

Steve beamed, his smile the same one he used to give when he’d just gotten punched by some bully and Bucky picked him up off the ground.

 

“Then don’t leave me again, eh?  That’ll solve things.”

 

* * *

 

 

“You sure this isn’t payback for Coney Island?”

 

He’s falling, world nothing but white and grey and black with whistling wind in his ears. The last thing he registers is Steve, reaching, calling, fading away.  He has a moment to feel little Steve curling up against him, see him smiling with a busted lip, smell oranges on his breath, and hear him laughing at a bad joke. Then he hits the ground and the impact knocks his soul from his body, flinging it back up to the train, to where his heart has always been, pooling in Steve’s hands and pouring through his fingers before evaporating into history.

 

## (NATASHA)

 

She was young and lithe and deadly, and James couldn’t help but feel drawn to her, dirty brown moth to her bright red flame. Something unspooled in his chest as he watched her move, thin metal that vibrated with coiled energy, electricity sparking along its length.  She danced into his sphere, filling the moments he was awake, and there was no way he wasn’t going to remember her, ice and machines and pain be damned.  Fire banked in snow, her warmth shook loose some long forgotten need to be more; he carved out a tiny niche where his handlers couldn’t reach and planted her there.

 

At first, they’re partners-in-crime, dealers of death, merciless and unrelenting; they leave ribbons of blood behind them, the spider and ghost, widow and soldier, then they are more, mirror images of the same pain, twisted creations, remade from pieces and parts. For Natalia, he burns down Drakov’s whole operation, wades through bodies stacked four high, and pulls her half dead from the wreckage. At night, he holds her against his chest, shivering in the unheated safe house, risks detection to steal medication, and leaves her to lay a false trail, letting them capture him, wipe him, take every memory. Even then, even after the chair and cryo and pain, so much pain, the tension remains in his chest, a flash of green eyes, flip of red hair.

 

She gets away.

 

James forgets, remembers, forgets, and remembers again.  He never thinks about her ‘less someone figures it out, pries it out of him, drags her back to the Red Room. She’s safer that way if he doesn’t look for her.  Instead, he fades away, year-by-year, cold as ice and impervious to the faces of the dead.

 

* * *

 

 

“Yasha.”

 

_Toe shoes, ribbons tied, hanging on a bedpost, tinny music from the theatre below._

 

Cold rain in his collar, soaking his shirt, drops falling from the ends of his hair. The streetlight glinted off the articulated metal of his arm as he held the gun steady, barrel pointed at the woman in the alley.

 

“I’m not going to beg.”

 

 _Small hands pressing a dirty cloth on the open wound, Russian curses in her lilting voice, begging him to stay with her, not to bleed out_.

 

He shifted his stance, not taking his eyes off his target; in the dim light, she looked tired, dark circles under her green eyes, shoulders slumped, blood on her jacket.

 

“At least it’s you, at least I get that.”

 

 _A tendril of red wrapping around his flesh fingers, quiet rise and fall of her chest as she sleeps, head resting on his shoulder._  

 

Ever so slowly, he eased back on the trigger, the strangest pang of discomfort uncurling in his gut.

 

“Why?” He asked, voice rusty from disuse. “Why me?”

 

 _Broken bones, shattered bodies, blood splattered walls, and he scooped her into his arms, carrying her gently out of the room_.

 

“I’m so very tired, and I’m ready.  You saved me once, Yasha.  Save me now.  Do it.”

 

What might have been a spark jumped between metal fingers as he lowered the gun. He’d taken out all the other assassins, knew the only one who remained wanted not to kill her but to recruit her. She could be free from this, safe from the … from … someone … somewhere.

 

“Say yes.”  He told her, stepping back into the darkness. “Live for me.”

 

He didn’t stay to see what happened next.

 

* * *

 

 

“Your work has been a gift to all mankind.”

 

The chair is cold, the mouthpiece stretching his lips, the electrodes pressing against his temples and he welcomes it, the familiar tightening of muscles in preparation for the …

 

She flashes in his mind, eyes wide with fear, hurtling backward as the blast from his weapon sent her flying across the street.  In those seconds, as memories drained away into the void, he holds onto her face, her voice, her …

 

Then there is nothing but the soldier.

## (CLINT)

 

The sniper was an obstacle, competition, better than he had any right to be, a mouthy little shit who argued even as the Soldier held a gun to his head.  We’re not enemies, he said, I can help you, he said, get to your target, he said, faster and sooner and quicker, he said.  Complete the mission objective before the established timeline, he said and grinned. Boasted he was the better shot, basically preened like a God damned peacock on the church’s roof in the blazing hot midday sun. 

 

And in the grey fog of the Soldier’s soul, a spark of amusement kindled like a slow-burning fuse, a line of powder that led into the dark depths where something lingered.  So the Soldier let the sniper live, let him have his plan and his acrobatics and trick shots and found he had two days before his programming told him to return to his handler, two days in the ancient medieval city with the sniper to eat and drink and fuck his fine ass into the mattress in a dingy hotel room.

 

It was always the first time the Soldier met Clint Barton, mouthy archer, world-class sniper and a man with infinite patience.  He never remembered the last or the second or tenth, never knew the sniper’s name, never stayed more than a day or two.  Twenty hours in Rio where he took out a politician who refused HYDRA’s hush money then ate so many shrimp that he got sick and the sniper held his hair while he threw up all night.  Thirty-two in Johannesburg where he assassinated a government official and they spent a day and night on the beach, body surfing, drinking increasingly strange cocktails, and fucking until he fell into an exhausted sleep.  Fifteen in Bangkok where he blew up some scientist’s lab, and they laid low in a tiny apartment with only a single flimsy bed they broke before the sun rises. Each time, the fuse burns a little more, banked to a bare smolder between, nothing to remember or forget or keep from his handlers. 

 

And yet ...

 

Sometimes he thinks he knows, for a split second, and he feels it like an arrow shaft buried in his chest, the overwhelming press of years spent in a precious handful of hours.  Down deep, as the tiny flames get nearer, the barest hint of anger, the most combustible of emotions --denial, regret, need, love -- waits, ready to explode. Each time they wipe him, each time he forgets the blue-grey eyes, infectious laugh, and flashes of wit, he gets closer to tapping that powder keg. 

 

Until then, he obeys his mission directives and, sometimes, meets a cocky sniper on a roof for the first time.

 

* * *

 

 

**“Возвращение на родину”**

 

He clenched his fists and planted his feet, fighting the fog that slipped around the edges of his vision to clung to his arms and legs, dragging him down into the grey space yet again.  

 

“Go. Now,” he all but growled. 

 

Shoving with his metal hand, he pushed the other man away while he still could. The warmth faded beneath the spreading ice, and in seconds it was as if the man had never touched the soldier, had never been there at all.

 

**“Один.”**

 

Stumbling back, the sniper hesitated for another second then spun on his heel and ran, dodging a dumpster and disappearing around the corner.  Fading fast, the soldier gave up the fight, a tiger entering a cage, washing the memories away in the haze of programming.

 

**“грузовой вагон”**

 

He stood in the alley, awaiting instructions from the voice in his ear, a killing machine prepared to stand down at his owner’s orders.

 

“Mission report, Soldat.”

 

Data unspooled, a dead police commissioner, a crime lord blamed, chaos in the city, an opening for HYDRA to put their own men in place.

 

“Target acquired and neutralized. No witnesses. Ready for new instructions.”

 

His booted foot came down on the styrofoam container, contents spilling over the asphalt, the scent of spicy noodles in his nostrils. Nothing, he thought, nothing to see, no one to notice, nobody nearby, and no memories to examine.

 

He was the soldier and nothing else mattered.

 

* * *

 

 

“I’m with you ‘til the end of the line.”

 

Framed in his crosshairs, the sniper appears, bow drawn to fire off a series of arrows. The soldier’s finger tightens on the trigger, his directive clear and unequivocal. 

 

Kill Captain America.

 

Slowly, he lowers the rifle, watches the man take out three of the soldier’s handling team then reach back to his quiver for more ammunition. They’d said nothing about an archer who wasn’t supposed to exist, so the soldier turns his attention to the fight on the ground and ignores the shafts that pick off his men one-by-one, secure he was still operating within acceptable parameters. 

 

And if he smells Chinese food, well, there’s a dumpster in the alley nearby.

 

* * *

 

# AFTER

* * *

## (BUCKY)

 

“So what you’re saying is that Bucky isn’t just Bucky, he’s James and the Soldier too?” 

 

“Sergeant Barnes’ memory,” Dr. Merritt said, “is returning slowly which is a good thing.  Too much at once would be overwhelming.  It was necessary for him to compartmentalize his psyche to handle the trauma he endured; as details return, it helps him to think in terms of the different sections of himself.”

 

Steve turned away from the window with its multi-million dollar view of NYC.  “Different personalities? You mean he’s got D.I.D.?”

 

“Not at all.”  She tilted her head up to see him better. “He is aware of all the aspects of his concept of self and very much understands what has been done to him. Think of it as the roles you play in life -- is Captain America and Steve Rogers the same?  Or are they different?”

 

He’d often thought of Captain America as a mask he wore, the uniform he donned to help others. Cap was strong and fearless and determined while Steve could be anxious and worried and unsure.  “Yeah, okay, I see what you mean. It’s just …”

 

“You want your friend back, I know.”  She leaned in her chair and swung her foot, her short leg not quite reaching the floor. “Thing is, he’s no longer that person, the kid from Brooklyn who enlisted and shipped out, leaving you behind.  But then, neither are you.”

 

He dug his hands into his jeans pockets and slouched his shoulders. “You know, he said that to me, after the rescue, that he wasn’t sure I was the same Steve he’d known.  For a minute I thought he meant something different, but then he made me laugh and we were back to normal.” He paused. “Although we really weren’t, were we?  Not even then.”

 

“That’s the thing about time travel, Steve. Everyone else gets to change slowly, adapt.  You both were forced to make a leap. Besides, was it really so perfect back then?  You never fought? Never got mad at each other? Never felt awkward? Never wanted it to be … different?”

 

“I see what you’re doing there.”  And he’d opened the door for the question all on his own. “Worst fight we ever had was over Bucky taking that damn job down at the docks.  They were into something illegal, I know they were, but he kept doing it because the pay was good.  Then he’d buy stuff for me with the money and I hated it.  God, the day he brought home that new coat, the one he’d bought secondhand, I yelled at him and stormed out, sat on the stoop until Mrs. O’Malley brought me dinner and bent my ear back about that fine young man of mine and how he was taking care of me and I should hie myself right back up there and thank him for keeping me warm.”  He chuckled at the memory. “I shared her chicken pot pie with him and he tucked me in before he left for work.”

 

“Mmmmm,” Dr. Merritt hummed and waited for Steve to continue.

 

“They all thought Buck was my young man and nobody said one word about it.” He rubbed a hand over his neck, tension building in his shoulders. “But Buck didn’t … he wasn’t … at least I didn’t think he did … not until I found out about him and Clint …”

 

“The soldier’s relationship with Agent Barton,” she stated. “That surprised you more than James and Agent Romanoff?”

 

“Sure. I mean, Buck and … James and Nat make sense, you know?  They’re so much alike; the Red Room partnered them, and they spent years as a team.  Besides, she’s strong, smart, beautiful ....”

 

“And you’re sleeping with her which makes things awkward.”

 

“You really don’t pull your punches, do you?”  Steve asked.  He liked that about the therapist, how willing she was to call him on the carpet when he hedged. “Awkward is one word for it.  Like one of those silly love triangles in romantic movies where best friends fight over one girl.”

 

“Interesting thing about triangles; we always forget everyone’s connected.  Best friends is how you’d describe your relationship to Sergeant Barnes?”

 

The hit exactly where she wanted it to land; Steve flinched and clenched his jaw.  “That’s all we’re going to be as long as Buck’s recovering.  I won’t take advantage of his situation and I wouldn’t do that to Tasha.  I care about her a great deal, and you don’t go dumping your girl just because things change a little.”

 

“Good to hear it.”  Still, she stared at him. “But you’re going to have to deal with it eventually; the only way Sergeant Barnes is going to recover is with all his friends supporting him.”

 

“I’m here and I plan to do what I have to in order to get … to help Bucky … damn it, I just want him to have a chance at a life. With whomever he wants if he wants anyone.  Wouldn’t blame him if he didn’t.” 

 

“Now that’s something I’d like you to think about for next time.  What if he wants …”  she didn’t have to finish the question.  Steve knew exactly what she was asking.

 

“I’ll deal with it when we get there,” he promised.

## (JAMES)

“I shot you.”

 

She didn’t stop spinning her bo staff as she pivoted to find him standing in the doorway of the gym. 

 

“You did. Through and through, right above the bikini line. I still have the scar.”

 

He wore the same scruffy grey sweatpants and worn henley she’d seen him in since he’d arrived; hair pulled back in a messy bun, he’d shaved recently enough that his jawline was smooth and pale white.

 

“I didn’t know …”  His voice petered out, and he simply stared her direction.

 

In her mind, she’d replayed this first conversation, ran through scenarios, made plans.  She’d play it quiet but affected, let him see hints of pain, a bit of anger, then slide into rueful nostalgia for times gone by.  Or maybe she’d go with full court press, asking questions, the interrogation he expected that, ultimately,  would net nothing from either of them but leave them feeling like the air had been cleared. Now, in the moment, she remembered his strong hands holding her bloody ones, and she didn’t want to play this game.  Not with him.

 

“You did. That’s why I’m alive.”  Leaning on the staff, she pushed away tendrils of hair that had escaped her braid. “Just like when I begged you to kill me. You always knew what you were doing.”

 

A shake of his head … disbelief more than argument … and he crossed his arms over his chest, retreating from the truth. 

 

“Don’t make me out to be a hero,”  he warned.  “I’m not.”

 

“I know exactly what you are, James. Same thing I am. A trained killer who slipped their leash. Doesn’t mean I don’t feel anything for you or you for me.” 

 

Sudden frustration bubbled up inside of her; so many years, so many aches, an agony of cuts that bled and never healed. Here they were, against the odds, and still they circled each other like wary dogs, afraid of the shadows of their past actions.  She’d finally put hers in perspective, accepted who she’d been and what she could be, let herself be convinced there could be more.

 

“You’re with Steve.”  She could see Bucky in that look, the hopeless romantic who pined for his best friend.  James had never been that soft; his love had been pointed and sharp and exactly what she’d needed. “I’m glad you and he found each other.”

 

“You are full of shit, James Buchanan Barnes.”  She arched an eyebrow and mirrored his stance, the staff tucked in the crook of an elbow. “I know what it’s like, remember?  To be diced to pieces and put back together wrong.  To believe it’s better to never have something than to lose it. To think you know nothing, feel nothing, care for no one. It’s a lie, all of it. I’ve loved three men in my life and all of them are living in this tower. The past has a way of catching up to us; we may as well deal with it when it does.”

 

“Three?”  Of all the things she’d said, of course he hit upon that fact. “Who's the third?”

 

She merely waited, knowing he’d make the connection.

 

“Clint?”  He turned it over in his mind then huffed a little laugh. “And I put you right in his path.  God, we are a twisted mess, aren’t we?”

 

“I prefer to think we both have good taste.”  The smile slipped across her face; the humor of the situation didn’t escape her notice. “When I realized Clint’s Soldier was you, I felt like Zhendy waking up in Nadya’s bed, but then to find you were Steve’s Bucky? The irony of fate indeed.”[1]

 

“Steve and I never … he’s not …” He clenched his fists, his metal arm plates moving and shifting. “That’s different.”

 

She raised her eyebrow again and waited.

 

“It is. You and I were the same, and Clint, well, he didn’t give a shit what I was.  Steve … Steve was the only thing that Bucky … I never fucked up.” A long strand of hair fell over his face as he hung his head, avoiding her gaze. “And now he has a life, a damn good one from what I can see, with a perfect woman, close friends and a good team. That’s reason enough to leave it alone.”

 

“Oh, Yasha.”  She tossed the staff his way; he caught it without hesitation. “Self-sacrificing idiot.  That’s what you all three have in common; you’re more than willing to throw yourselves on every damn grenade whether you need to or not.  It’s okay to want things for yourself.”

 

“Talia, I …”

 

“Now get your ass over here and let’s work on the hole in your left side. You rely too much on brute strength to power your way through the fight; someone’s going to slip a blade between your ribs if you’re not careful.”

 

She couldn’t say it, not out loud, not now, maybe never, but she longed to feel his touch, the brush of fingers on her skin, to remember the heat between them.  That was the thing about being unmade and put back together: room for so many pieces, in so many different configurations. Maybe she could get James to understand that.

## (THE SOLDIER)

“Come on, I wanna show you something.” 

 

Clint didn’t wait to see if the Soldier followed, loping down the hallway and hitting the call button for the elevator.  Despite all the psychobabble being spouting in the tower, one thing Clint knew for sure was going stir-crazy when trapped inside.  For someone like Bucky-James-Whatever enforced rest was its own unique kind of torture.  Personally, he’d have set something on fire by now, and Barnes was three months into his open-ended house arrest.  He’d jump at any chance to see the sky if offered.

 

Just then, the doors swished open … fucking starship Enterprise level sound effects that no one noticed but Clint … and he stepped inside, leaving plenty of room for the Soldier to slouch into the back corner. In the mirrored interior walls, Clint could see the tense line of shoulders, the pronounced forearm veins popping as he clenched the rail.  Some sunlight was definitely in order, stat. The damn doctors and shrinks could go fuck themselves with their platitudes and idiotic advice.  No one had bothered to ask either Natasha or him, the other brainwashed assassins around the place, for their opinion.  Worst thing ever was being trapped in your own head, especially when there’d been too many people in there already. 

 

“So, who’s gonna win the series?” he tossed out because, hey, if he wasn’t being a smartass, he was dead. “Superbowl? Curling championships?”

 

Those familiar blue eyes lifted, a tiny crinkle at one corner.

 

“Bet you’re a Manchester United fan,” Barnes mumbled. “Figures.”

 

The floor they exited on was little more than an observation room with windows from floor-to-ceiling and a roof access door, but the view was pretty damn amazing.  The Soldier stood and stared, exhaling softly as he looked across the river towards Pennsylvania.

 

“Changed a lot, eh?”  Clint scanned the skyline, picking out older buildings, wondering if they’d been around during the 40s.  “Some of the 70s architecture is pretty damn questionable, but what do you expect of the decade that gave us bell bottoms?” 

 

With a little huff, Bucky cut his eyes towards Clint. “Yeah, but shoulder pads, man.  Women looked like NFL linebackers in the 80s.”

 

“So true, so true,” Clint agreed. “Come on, we’re not there yet.”

 

The roof access was three more flights up and through a heavy blast door that needed an extra shove to force open.  Then there was a metal ladder, a catwalk, and squeezing between air conditioner units before seven more steps. 

 

“Whoa, that’s  …” A 360-degree panorama greeted them, the whole of the island of Manhattan spread out and, on a clear day like this, all the way to New Jersey and deep into Pennsylvania.

 

“One of the best things about the Tower,” Clint admitted. “Plus, there’s no wifi and the cell signal sucks because of the HVAC units nearby.  Jarvis can see us, but it’s about as isolated as you can get ‘round here.”

 

He dragged two folding chairs out from behind the nearest air conditioning intake, and they sat, arranging themselves back-to-back, falling into old patterns without a word.  Someone had always been gunning for one or both of them, and there’d been the specter of trigger words hanging like a noose around the Soldier’s neck.  Now Clint had his own set, a list of names that started with Philip J. Coulson, and he was the one who hit replay.

 

“I came up here a lot,” he said when the silence got to be too much, “after Loki.  Helped to see I hadn’t managed to fuck over everything, you know?”

 

“You see better from a distance, yeah. I remember that much.” Barnes tilted his head back and bumped Clint’s gently, a tap of solidarity that was so damn familiar, Clint almost choked on the swell of emotion that clogged his throat. “Welcome to the mind-fucked-by-bad-guys club. We have don’t have cookies, but we have super secret codes.”

 

Something half between a laugh and a sob tore from Clint’s throat; he coughed to cover it.

 

“Is that Bucky or James talking, ‘cause the Soldier has only a thimbleful of humor and it’s dry as the Sahara.”

 

“Maybe all those years of hearing you yammer on taught him … me something.” The metal gears in Bucky’s arm whirred. “Speaking of which, you’ve been pretty damn quiet since I showed up. Do I need to find this Loki bastard and rip his spleen out for ya’?”

 

 “Flowers are nice, but nothing says you care more than a bloody corpse.”  Clint’s chest hurt when he barked out a sharp laugh. He tried taking a deep breath to break the tight band constricting his lungs. “Loki’s supposedly in an Asgardian prison and personally, I hope his cellmate is some big motherfucker who’s made him his bitch.  Couldn’t happen to a shittier guy.”

 

“So that makes two of us with unresolved issues.  Good, I hate to stew alone.” 

 

“Gotta count Nat; she’s the queen of check marks in her ledger.”  Half the reason he’d bearded this lion was for her sake; she might act like she had it all together, but Clint knew she was wound up in a web of her own making over all this.  She’d finally accepted a life with Steve and all it could offer despite Clint being a constant reminder of her past. “My forced mental vacation was a handful of days, you two can count decades.”

 

“Natalia.”  Even his voice changed when he said her name, edges sanded down and tone softened to a lover’s caress. “She called me a self-sacrificing idiot. I have no clue what she wants.”

 

“Can’t say I’m any good at the whole communication thing … I mean, my longest relationship was with a guy who tried to kill me then kept forgetting who I was … but I have learned to trust Nat and do what she says.  She’s usually right.”

 

“That hasn’t changed then. Nice to know.” 

 

They stopped talking for another span, watching the sun slowly drop towards the west as the afternoon waned.  Twice, Clint’s watch silently vibrated, Natasha checking in; he tapped once each time in reply. 

 

“Why did you do it?” James finally asked. “Keep coming back over and over again.”

 

Now that was a question Clint had wrestled with in many a late night insomnia bout.  Had the sex been so good, he’d ignored the danger? ‘Cause it had been.  Was it the danger itself, living on a razor’s edge between the Soldier and his programming?  Yeah, Clint was an adrenaline junkie and the shot of fear did it for him.  Or was it the overwhelming, gut-wrenching, cock-throbbing attraction he felt when he even thought about the Soldier?  He’d never use the L word, but, even now, Clint definitely felt it when Bucky walked into a room.

 

“You were worth it,” he finally settled on.  “The sex, the danger, the way you slowly woke up, the glimpses of the man you were behind the mask ... My emotional  compass is pretty screwed up, honestly, so I’m not sure I have a logical reason.”  He shrugged.  “Figured you didn’t bother to shoot me because I was amusing and enough of a temporary distraction to make it worth it. That, and I give a damn good blow job.”

 

He felt James tense and still. “You weren’t a temporary distraction,” was all he eventually said.

 

Clint was nothing if not a realist;  he knew his strengths and weaknesses, knew what he had to offer to a guy like the Soldier.  Maybe more than Steve or Natasha, even Bucky himself, Clint understood where this was going, what the only options were, and he was trying desperately not to get emotionally invested in any of the possible outcomes.

 

“So,  hanging out together is still cool, right?  Gotta keep my title as the best shot, after all …”

 

He never saw James move. Metal hand closed around his throat before he could finish; steely blue eyes stared into Clint’s, so close he could see his jaw flex, his Adam's apple bob as he swallowed.

 

“What the fuck? Just say whatever you want to say and get it over with.”

 

Breathing was highly overrated; the press of fingers was more than he thought he’d get today.

 

“Ah, there you are.  Was worried you’d gone soft on me, all this talk about feelings and endless pining.”

 

For a second, the Soldier lifted him off the ground until the toes of his combat boots barely brushed the roof. Then he set him down and backed off, surprise coloring his movements.

 

“Jesus Christ, Barton.  You are a piece of work, you know that?”  He smiled, a real honest smile not one of the practiced ones for the therapists and doctors and higher muckety-mucks.  “I missed your brand of crazy.” 

 

“No one else like me in the world.”  Clint returned the grin.  “So, wanna commander the giant screen and kick everyone’s ass at Halo? We’ll order pizza.”

 

“I’ve got a craving for Chinese, some spicy noodles. And those pork soup dumplings; I bet Stark has some place on speed dial.”

 

“Oh, brother, you have no idea what you can get when you wave Stark’s money around.”

 

## (BUCKY & JAMES)

 

His fingers dug into the curve of her hips, his lips pressed to the pulse point in her neck.  Buried inside her, arching up into her warmth, he groaned, her name and her taste on his tongue.  Like a prayer, he exhaled her as he tipped over, filling her as he emptied himself.   After, they lay tangled together, her breasts pressed against his chest, his hand on the small of her back, and their skin cooling as the sweat dried.  Heartbeats synced, breaths evened out, lethargy stealing over them.

 

“It’s okay to talk about it,” she said, propping her chin on her folded hands so she could see him better. “Isn’t that what shrinks say, you need to vocalize your feelings?”

 

He chuckled -- she could always poke holes in his self-inflated worry bubbles -- and drew circles on her back with his fingers. “Right now I’m feeling pretty damn sated and in need of a nap.”

 

She could say everything and nothing with just that little tilt of her head.

 

“But, yeah, we should. Talk about it. Bucky, that is. And you. And me.” 

 

One eyebrow rose.

 

“You’re too good at that,” he protested. An edge of her lips curled up.  “Okay, yes, it’s a little weird that I’m sleeping with my best friend’s ex-girlfriend, but I’m not going to stop because I really enjoy this thing we’re doing.”

 

“You were okay with Clint being here”  She slid her toes up and down his calf. “Why is James different?”

 

“Clint was … Clint.”  He floundered.  “You and he were … had been … ”  He took a deep breath and tried again. “You and Clint had time to work it out, get through the change from being lovers to friends. He told me he was okay with it when I asked.”

 

That earned him a narrowing of her eyes.

 

“Yes, I talked to him; seemed better he heard it from me than find out by accident. He does have a habit of wandering into your apartment.”

 

She accepted the explanation with a small nod.

 

“But Buck’s just come back and none of us have really come to terms with what that means.”

 

“Clint and I have talked to him.”  The implication was clear.

 

“Hard to talk to him when I don’t know what I want to say.”  He sighed over the complicated set of emotions that admission brought up.  “Hell, I don’t even know what I feel much less where to go from here.”

 

“You’ve loved him your whole life, Steve.”  The word dropped in the air, so powerful and yet so terrifying. “You went rogue, risked your career to save him.  That’s a pretty good place to start.”

 

“Well,  I love you too, whether you want me to say it or not.”  Steve’s hand stilled and pressed flush against her spine. “As long as we’re being honest, you loved James, maybe still do, and Clint as well. Hell, love is the one thing we’ve got to spare around here. That’s not the issue.”

 

“I don’t …” He’d thrown her off her game, pushed her to a place she didn’t like to go, her memories of the past and the emotions of the present.

 

“I know.”  He dropped a kiss on her forehead. “That’s the irony of it all, isn’t it?  You and Buck and Clint have all the reasons in the world to not believe in love and yet you found ways to make it work while I hid and lied and pretended to be just friends.” 

 

“I never intended to love the three of you.”  She curled in tighter against him. “But James was my mirror, so much like me that we fit perfectly; he made me dream of something I couldn’t have.  And Clint wormed his way in with pure determination and that stupidly charming way he has of tossing his whole heart into everything he does. Then there’s  you, with your overly dramatic heroics, frat boy good looks, and uncompromising need to be larger-than-life ...”

 

“Ouch,” he protested. “Frat boy? Really?”

 

“Well, James has the bad boy thing covered, Clint’s cornered the market on goofball, so, yeah, frat boy for you. Most likely to shoot a beer or do a keg stand.” 

 

“Oh, ho, okay. Just for that …”  He flipped them over, trapping her body beneath his. “If I’m beer pong, then what’s Bucky and Clint?”

 

“Vodka shots in an ice cold glass, and hot coffee right from the pot.”  She tangled a hand into the hair at the nape of his neck.  “And just to be clear, I’m not falling on my sword, Rogers. I’m fighting for you, and you know I fight dirty.”

 

She did that thing she did with her lips on that spot in the vee of his collarbone, and his cock jumped. A lift of her hips, a slide of her knee and he was seated between her legs, slotting perfectly as if he was meant to be wrapped in her body always.

 

“Doesn’t have …” he exhaled as she moved to her mouth to his nipple “ … to be …” she rolled her hips and his cock throbbed in response “... a fight.” 

 

“No? Then what?”  Her words vibrated along his skin,  the sound of them stirring his very soul. 

 

“I don’t know, but I’ll figure it out.”

 

## (JAMES & THE SOLDIER)

 

“Can’t … stop …”  Clint wheezed the words between panting gasps. “At least … three groups … searching …”

 

She looped his arm over her shoulder and kept going, ignoring the sharp pain in her calf with each step. Night was falling; they just had to make it over the border and they’d be okay.  The Hungarian government was close to declaring war on Latveria; Doom’s personal guard couldn’t follow without creating an international incident.

 

“Almost there, Misha.”  She didn’t like the sound of Clint’s breathing, the trickle of blood at the corner of his lips.  They wouldn’t get far if he had a collapsed lung.

 

“Kávé. A big pot all for me.”  He coughed, almost stumbled, but didn’t fall. “And kurtos. Two, maybe three.”

 

A dog barked somewhere on the mountain slope below them; she cursed under her breath.

 

“Fuck Victor Von Doom,” Clint agreed. “Next time, someone else gets to infiltrate the castle; we get to dress up in the fancy clothes and go dancing.”

 

They got lucky; doubling back to avoid a patrol that came too close for comfort, she saw a tiny mark on a tree, half hidden in the leaves.  It led to another, and another, then they were across the border somewhere halfway up the mountain and, in less than twenty minutes, at a waystop of the Latverian underground railroad. They cleaned up with water from the cistern, found the medical kit tucked behind old rusted farm tools, and uncovered a mountain bike that was more rust than metal but started on the first try.  It wasn’t ideal; all the jostling and bumping made Clint’s fingers go white as he held tight around her waist, but they made it to a paved road and then the outskirts of Szeged where the safe house was tucked between a supermarket and a gas station, right across the street from Tibi Hambi, a hamburger joint.

 

“Gah, slow, go slow,” Clint complained when Natasha started to peel off his tac suit vest.  “Damn bullet’s stuck and the edges are sharp. I told ‘em the kevlar was too loose, but they said it would tighten up.” 

 

As she gently drew the fabric away, she found the flattened metal pressed against Clint’s skin, mottled purple spreading along his rib cage. A second bullet had hit a couple inches lower, a third higher, barely missing his collarbone. He’d have ugly bruising and some serious pain, but he would survive.

 

“Where did all this blood come from?”  She asked as she wiped across his chin, dabbing over the split skin.

 

“Bit the inside of my cheek,” he admitted. “Didn’t want that guard to find us, and I stubbed my toe on one of those damn bricks.”

 

“You’re a mess, you know that?”  She sighed, glad to put her fears to rest.  They’d be able to get out of here as soon as the transport arrived. “Banged up your knee again, I see.”

 

“Twisted it good”  Clint pouted, his lips turning down. “Hurts like hell.”

 

“You’ll be fine.”  

 

A sluggishly bleeding cut near his shoulder needed cleaning and a butterfly bandage; she trailed her fingers along his skin, tips tracing a path around a familiar scar.  A long scrape around his torso, another on the back of his bicep; she’d forgotten just how well she knew his body, the road map of markers that told the story of his life.  The knife wound he hated to talk about.  A bullet from Budapest. Cigarette shaped burns from his father. The new one from a HYDRA gun -- she could tell the difference.

 

“Tasha?”  His voice, so soft and gentle, asking. She glanced up and fell into those ever-changing eyes, now grey with concern. “What is it?”

 

“I don’t … It’s just …”  The planes of his face, the well-loved curve of his cheek, that crinkle around his eyes as he smiled.

 

“Is it Steve? Or James?”

 

“Yes. No. Maybe?” She let her confusion show, dropping the mask she wore even for him. “Steve used the L word.” 

 

“Lesbian?”  He chuckled when she stuck out her tongue at him. “I know, Tasha.  You love like you fight; totally committed with eyes wide open. And Steve is all heart on his sleeve, all the time. That’s why you two work; you ground him, and he lifts you up.”

 

“And people think you’re not intuitive. Sometimes I don’t know why we’re not still together.”

 

“Cause we’re better as partners who don’t have sex”  His words might be light, but the shadow that flitted behind his eyes told a different story. “Pretty clear after Bogota.”

 

“Yeah, see, the way I remember it, I left you on that rooftop without a way down, and you still managed to save the asset and get everyone out safely.” She shook her head. “I didn’t believe it was real, you and me, so I hurt you first.”

 

“Tash, don’t do this.”  Clint covered her hand with his. “It’s all this shit with Barnes that’s stirring up old feelings.  You and me, we’re good. Better than good.  There’s nothing to regret, not on my end of things.”

 

“Maybe I do. Regret it.”  She squeezed her eyes shut. “Maybe I still love you, love Steve and James too.  Maybe I don’t know what I want anymore.” 

 

He closed the small distance, his warm lips kissing her forehead, his calloused fingers stroking her hair.

 

“Pretty sure that means it’s real,” he murmured. “Thing is, you don’t have to worry about me; I’m not going anywhere.  You and Steve live happily ever after, I’ll sing at your wedding.  If those two idiots get their act together, I’ll take you drinking and we’ll eat ice cream straight from the carton.  And if it’s James you settle on, well, Steve’s going to need a rebound fuck buddy.” 

 

God, he could always make her laugh, no matter the situation. “You and Steve?”

 

“Seriously, woman, you’ve seen the man naked.  That ass? Those arms? That shoulder to waist ratio? Oh, and I bet the serum made everything proportional, am I right?  I do have a thing for big dick energy … Ow!”

 

She swatted him on the shoulder. “Jesus, Barton, just when I thought we were having a mature conversation.  Just for that, we’ll take the bike to the rendezvous point; those bruises are going to ache like a bitch by tomorrow morning.”

 

“You wound me, Nat.  And here I thought we were making a real connection.”  He hissed when she ran a new antiseptic wipe over the long scrape. “You’re just using me for my amazing sexual prowess; all has become clear.”

 

“Yeah, that’s it.”  She stood. “Better hurry and grab the shower first if you want any hot water. I need to wash the Latverian stench out of these clothes.” 

 

He eased up and walked slowly towards the bathroom door, pausing before he went in. 

 

“I love you, Natasha.”  He told her. “Always will.” 

 

“I know.”

 

## (BUCKY & THE SOLDIER)

 

“HA! YES!” 

 

Steve paused in the doorway, unwilling to interrupt the scene before him.  Sprawled on the massive sofa,  Bucky sulked, dropping his game controller onto the cushions as Clint celebrated by waving his hands around and wiggling his ass in something that approximated a happy dance.

 

“You got lucky on that last lap.”  Bucky caught one of Clint’s wrists before he smacked him on the arm.  “I’ll get you next time.”

 

“You can try.”  Clint went straight for the kill, flashing Bucky a wicked grin.  “But you’ll just go down to defeat because I. Am. The. Mario. Kart. Champion.”

 

“Whatever.”  Bucky smiled in return, and Steve felt an ache in his chest at how easy they were together.  He and Buck were still walking on eggshells around each other, neither one ready to talk about anything more than mundane topics like what to have for dinner or Bucky’s schedule of appointments with various doctors. “I’m gonna hit the head. Be right back. Stevie can take my place while I’m gone, right Steve?” 

 

“Ah, I don’t really …”  He stumbled over his tongue.  “I was just passing by …”

 

“Excellent!”  Clint did a backbend over the back of the couch and held out a controller. “Come on, Cap, good for hand-eye coordination, plus you can get all your aggressions out by running over shit.  It’s our favorite.” 

 

“Yep,” Bucky agreed as he rolled up in one fluid movement.  “Might even be better than punching your knuckles bloody in the wee hours of the morning.”

 

“Or hitting the range for hours?”  Steve knew how to fight this battle. “Pot, kettle.”

 

“Aw, look, you two are so cute.”  Clint flinched as he tried to twist back into place.  “Ow.”

 

“Stop that.”  Bucky flipped the lever for the end recliner, opening the leg rest. “Elevate your damn knee, Jerk, like you’re supposed to.”

“Who made you my keeper?” Clint groused. “I get enough of that from Nat and Sam, thank you very much.” 

 

“Keeper? Nah.”  A glint showed in Bucky’s eye. “Daddy maybe.”

 

Clint hurled a pillow; it hit Bucky squarely in the back as he retreated. 

 

“Don’t let this guy fool, ya Steve.  He’s a shark and will hustle you if you let him.”

 

“Thanks, but I already knew that.” 

 

Bucky’s laughter echoed even after he was in the hallway, disappearing slowly as Steve sat down in his place.

 

“I haven’t seen him that relaxed since he came to the Tower,” he said, turning the controller over in his hands and examining the buttons. “I’m glad he has you; you’re good for him.”

 

“Good for him.”  Clint snorted.  “Look, if you’re going to give me a shovel speech, it’s a waste of time.  We’re not sleeping together at the moment. He just needs someone to hang out with who doesn’t come with decades of baggage attached, just a little backpack of feels.”

 

“You two go back, don’t you?  I thought …”

 

“Yeah, no, the Soldier and I weren’t like that. There wasn’t yesterday and tomorrow, just today and nothing else. Part of the draw, honestly; a handful of good moments and that’s all.”  He pressed some buttons and muted the music of the game. “Thing is, memories and history and worrying about what comes next can really get in your head and screw you up.  Make you hesitate when you should move forward. Distract you from what’s important and what’s right in front of you.”

 

“It’s not that easy …” he protested.

 

“It really is, Cap. You’ve got people who love you, who are waiting on you to give them a clue.  Doesn’t matter what went before or what might happen next, just that they’re here right now.” He shrugged. “That’s what’s important.”

 

“And now I can see why you and Bucky worked. He always called me on my bullshit. You two are a lot alike.”

 

“Yeah, me, you, and Bucky, Nat calls us self-sacrificing idiots.  Open our mouths, fall on grenades, run into the line of fire, we live for right now, expecting to die tomorrow.” 

 

“Natasha has a point,” Steve admitted.

 

“Now, me, the Soldier and Nat, we’re the mind-controlled, fucked-up ex-assassin club.   Our ledgers are so damn heavy, there’s no way we’ll ever wipe them out, but we make the effort.  We really don’t want to dwell on yesterday, rather look for tomorrow.” 

 

Steve blinked, cocked his head, and looked closer at Clint; that was a very astute observation.  “And Nat, me and Buck? What are we?”

 

“Delayed gratification experts, completely focused on tomorrow and missing today.  Always thinking long term and putting your needs second, third, so fucking far away you’ll never get around to them.” He suddenly grinned, seriousness draining away.  “It’s pretty simple, Steve. Pick your players and press start.  Life’ll take care of the rest.”

 

The music started when Clint tapped the toggle; he nodded to the one in Steve’s hand.

 

“You gonna play or not?”

 

Steve hit the button and a car appeared on the screen.

 

“Let’s do this.”

 

## (JAMES) ** _,_** BUCKY,  & THE SOLDIER

 

“How long?” 

 

He strapped a knife to his thigh and tucked another in his boot, adjusting a strap and tightening his belt.

 

“Thirty-six hours since the transponder went dark. Forty past check-in,” Steve said.  “Sam called from San Guardio and said they were on the trail. Nothing after that.” 

 

His jacket was blue now, a navy so dark it looked black, and he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror in the hall. Slicked back hair and clean shaven jaw barely tempered the steel in his eyes; he grabbed his go-pack and slung it over his shoulder and almost recognized the man who stared back at him.

 

“There’s a quinjet ready; I’ve downloaded everything Jarvis could find about the mission. We’ll go over it once we’re in the air; right now, we’ve got a ten minute window.” 

 

Down the hall, they headed for the stairs, taking them two at a time as they climbed to the flight deck.  The door clicked open, Stark’s A.I. unlocking it for them; they probably had Jarvis to thank for the mysteriously empty staging rooms. Technically, he was still on Tower arrest, and he definitely wasn’t clear for an active rescue mission. But none of that matter when it was Natasha, Wilson and Stark who had dropped off the radar. Fury could go to hell if he tried to stop James from going after them. 

 

“The flight’s about four …”  Steve stopped talking when he saw Clint standing by the jet, fully armored up in his tac suit, quiver and best bow, the one he only took out for the most important jobs.  James had seen it twice, and both times serious bloodshed had followed. 

 

“Don’t start,” Clint said. “You need someone to watch your six and be the eyes up high, so I’m coming.”

 

“I can’t ask you to do that.  This isn’t a sanctioned op; we’ve been ordered to stand down.”  Bless Steve’s heart, he still cared about the rules even when he was breaking them.  “You’re a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent, Clint.  I can’t let you put your position in jeopardy.”

 

“Fuck S.H.I.E.L.D.  Won’t be the first time I’ve gone rogue, and won’t be the last.”  He fell into step with the two of them as they climbed the jet’s ramp. “I’ve got a bad feeling about this, and so do you or you wouldn’t be springing the one-man wrecking crew here.”

 

“Look who’s talkin’,” James said. “Istanbul ring any bells?”

 

Clint gave him a feral grin. “Yeah, that was pretty damn messy, wasn’t it?” 

 

“Somehow I don’t think I have a choice about this.”  Steve took one of the seats as Clint headed for the cockpit and controls.

 

“You don’t,” Clint and James said at the same time.

 

By the time they set down on the edge of what had once been Owens Lake in California,  Jarvis had tracked the team’s movements via video and satellites to an abandoned water treatment plant.  The plan was simple enough; Clint went high while Steve took the lead, kicking down the doorway and throwing the first punch. For all James had worried, having a gun in his hand again was comforting, the recoil welcome and grounding.  His metal arm wasn’t an extra weight; he’d forgotten what it felt like, his body working not against itself but in concert for one goal.  Brain taking charge; shutting down the anxiety; thinking only point, pull, and shoot;  rescue the only acceptable outcome.  He fell into the rhythm without hesitation, back and forth with Steve, punch high, sweep low, just like those days with the Howling Commandos.  But he also bobbed and weaved with Clint, clearing sight lines, setting up shots, not flinching when fletching brushed his hair as an arrow flew by.  He clicked into place and, for the first time in a long time, felt less like a burden and more like … well, something else.

 

Stark immediately grabbed Steve’s phone when they found him, bloodied fingers connecting to Jarvis with barely constrained anger.  Wilson they found banging on cell bars, yelling at them, frantic that they not stop to release him, insistent they find Natasha first.  It was James who broke down the last remaining door with one punch, Clint whose arrows took out the guy with a bead on James’ head, and Steve who tenderly gathered up the shivering woman, plastered her wet body against his warm chest, and carried her out of the room.  Wrapped in James’ coat, Natasha cursed in seven different languages, complaining about losing her favorite uniform, but under the bravado, James could see the rips in her persona, the memories too close to the surface.  By the time they made it to Stark’s Malibu mansion, an intentional choice to avoid the blowback that was brewing from S.H.I.E.L.D. and the World Security Council not to mention the U.S. government, she’d fallen silent, huddled in Steve’s arms, her feet tucked under James’ leg. 

 

“I’m fine,” she said after she’d spent almost an hour under a scalding hot shower. “You don’t need to stay.”

 

All three of them shared a look, a year of negotiation and therapist appointments and delicate conversations in the mere seconds of that gaze, then Steve swept her up and carried her to bed, sliding in behind her and holding her close.  Clint turned off the lights, mumbled something about keeping watch, and slipped out of the room.  That left James, standing awkwardly, unsure of what to do next until Natasha held out her hand towards him. 

 

“James?” she asked.

 

_Long nights tangled together, trying to get warm, pretending they were safe. The scent of her hair and steady beat of her heart against his skin._

 

“I promised Mrs. O’Malley I’d let you keep me warm” Steve reminded him.

 

_Creamy chicken pot pie and cold nights and a shivering body curled up next to his. The smell of fresh bread from the Pstiakie’s place and scratchy music from the Arnolds’ victrola._

 

God, but he wanted.  Wanted so much that it was dangerous, this aching need.

 

“Get in the damn bed, Barnes,” Natasha said, “and stop thinking about it.”

 

He toed off his boots, left his belt over the back of a chair, then slipped between the sheets still in his jeans and tank.  Before he got settled, Natasha flipped over and curled against his chest and slotted back into his life as if she’d never left. With a tilt of her chin, she gazed up with those big green eyes and then her mouth touched his, brushing away his doubts with the gentlest of kisses, leaving a lingering taste of mint and smell of strawberries.  Turning, she offered up those rosy lips to Steve who took them without hesitation.  Easy, light, a kiss between more than lovers, from partners who knew intimately what the other needed. 

 

She wiggled into closer contact, tucked her nose into the curve of James’ neck, and exhaled warm breath against his skin.  Reaching back, she pulled Steve’s arm over her, placing his hand on James’ waist, then did the same with James’ hand, effectively boxing herself into the valley their bodies created. Only after she settled, her heartbeat steadied and began to slow, did he dare to look over her head, across the red hair, afraid of what he’d see.

 

Blue eyes, so close, too fucking close to hide anything from.  Wide open, searching … the way Steve was looking at him roiled in his gut and tightened the knot in his chest. 

 

Back then, before Zola and Russians and H.Y.D.R.A., before super serums and metal arms and mind wipes, he’d laid in the bed they shared and dreamed about Steve’s mouth, what it would be like to kiss and touch and taste.  Even in bivouac tents and on muddy rutted roads, when bombs fell and they huddled together under the covers, he dreamed of strong arms, long legs, and wide chest, a safe haven in the midst of war. Now, he’d dared believe he could be more than the Soldier, be a member of the team,  and a best friend.

 

That first touch, the taste of Natasha still on their lips, was gentle and yet determined, a Steve who wanted, who took but never demanded. Ever so slowly, Steve deepened the pressure, slanted his mouth, and kissed the way he lived -- honest and open and overwhelmingly right.

 

“Do you …”  Steve murmured.

 

“Always,” James answered.

 

And, as James lay there, listening to Natasha’s even breathing and kissing the man of his dreams, he could swear he tasted oranges.

 

##  JAMES, (BUCKY), & THE SOLDIER

 

“Who the fuck are these guys?”  Clint groused over the comms. “They won’t stay down; that was two exploders and an EMP pulse that did virtually nothing.”

 

“The only one making a dent is the Hulk, but even he needs more than one hit,” Tony replied.  His repulsor blasts bounced off an armored figure. “H.Y.D.R.A.’s gotten an upgrade recently.”

 

Bucky held his shot, hoping to find a chink rather than waste more ammunition.  So far, even with the special rounds he’d swiped from Tony’s lab as he’d left, he’d taken out only two enemies. He was only here because, when the attack began, Stark had been tightening up some wiring in his elbow; Bucky grabbed the rifle they’d been using to increasing fingering ability and followed Tony towards the fight.

 

“Anyone got eyes on Cap?” Sam asked. “He was on the balcony but I can’t see him.  Tell me his shiny white ass didn’t jump again?  That man has a hard-on for free falling.”

 

“Actually, I think he has a hard-on for …”  Tony began, but Natasha cut him off.

 

“On your six, Stark.  Incoming.”

 

From his vantage point, Bucky scanned the largest outdoor space, the one with the pool and full kitchen; he counted ten of the armored fighters but saw no sign of Steve.  “He’s not on the balcony,” he informed the others. “But there are three bogies climbing the ladder towards your nest, Barton. Keep your head down and I’ll get ‘em.” 

 

“Roger that.”  Clint ducked down and Bucky sighted through the scope, fired off two shots. Each one hit a metal strut that held the ladder in place; slowly it separated, the weight of the armored men making it top heavy, then it succumbed to gravity, spilling all three over the side of the Tower.  “Well, fuck. Now how am I supposed to get down?” 

 

“Next time I’ll let ‘em get the drop on you.” Bucky changed positions, keeping an eye out for a flash of silver shield or span of extra wide shoulders.  “Anyone see Rogers?”

 

“Hulk see.” The big green guy was hard to miss; he landed in the pool, splashing a wave of water that washed three guys over the railing.  “Red man fight Popsicle inside by TV.”

 

Popsicle.  That never got old.  Bucky loved the Hulk’s names for everyone, especially the cross between Stark’s Capsicle and the frozen treat they’d eaten when they were kids. Wasn’t sure about the alcoholic versions they had today,  but that might be because he couldn’t get drunk anymore.

 

“Red man?”  Tony whizzed by, did a barrel roll and changed course.  “What Red …”

 

With a rumble and a crash, a man burst out of a window carrying what looked like an unconscious Steve Rogers. Clad entirely in black, he wore some sort of rocket on his back, and his face was bright red. In fact, his whole head was …

 

“Fucking hell.”  Bucky was up and swinging over the railing, dropping the twenty feet to the balcony below. “Schmidt.  It’s Johann Schmidt.”

 

“Who’s …” Sam began.

 

“Red Skull’s dead,”  Natasha said. “Steve killed him in the war.”

 

“Well, I’m looking right at him.”  Tony was hard on the trail. “Jarvis says it’s a 92% visual match.”  

 

They were moving fast, almost too fast to get a bead on them, but Bucky ignored everything going on around him, balanced his rifle with his metal arm and focused.  The floor shook as the Hulk flung men about like they were toys, but Bucky didn’t flinch.

 

“Sam, gonna need a catch,” he said. 

 

A fighter almost got a hand on him, falling just short with an arrow in his back; Bucky kept trained on the rapidly dwindling target.

 

“Almost,” he mumbled.

 

Tony cut across his line of vision; still, Bucky waited.

 

“There.” 

 

He pulled the trigger. 

 

Schmidt bucked as it hit.

 

Steve dropped from his hold and plummeted downward.

 

Sam caught him by the leather shoulder harness.

 

“Damn good shooting, Tex,” Tony called. “Schmidt’s down in the Hudson.  I’m not going in there to get him; that water’s rank. Fury can handle that. ”

 

The fight continued; Thor’s timely arrival made a second person who could inflict enough damage to knock out their defenses.  The rest was a war of attrition which the Avengers won because they were on their home turf and could afford to let the Hulk and Thor play pinball with the H.Y.D.R.A. scum.  By the time it was over, Steve was installed in bed in medical, still unconscious, doctors frantically trying to determine what Schmidt … if it had actually been Schmidt and not a doppelganger/alien/imposter … had given him.  They eventually declared that Steve’s super metabolism was working it out of his system and suggested they take turns talking to him, encouraging him to wake up. 

 

Forty-two hours later, Bucky exited the elevator and quietly made his way down the corridor, under his arm a battered copy of _The Heart is a Lonely Hunter_ he’d found in a second-hand store.  It was one of Steve’s favorites, the tale of the lonely deaf-mute; Bucky had no idea what to say, so he planned to read a chapter or two. 

 

“I've seen all the movie stars in their fancy cars and their limousines, been high in the Rockies under the evergreens.” [2]

 

The melodic lyrics echoed down the corridor, Clint’s familiar voice sending chills down Bucky’s spine.

 

“I know what I'm needin', and I don't want to waste more time. I'm in a New York state of mind.”

 

The memories slammed into him, a wash of smells and sounds and tastes that overwhelmed his senses.

 

_Sticky fingers from Coney Island cotton candy.  Cold toes pressed against his calf.  Coughs so deep the bed shook. Snow falling on a busy street. Fried onions and Friday fish.  Rough wooden crates that bit through leather gloves.  Bony elbows and knobby knees in his back.  Bright red lipstick on his sister’s lips. Bland boiled potatoes._

 

He bit his lip until blood ran to keep from making a sound.

 

“It comes down to reality, and it's fine with me cause I've let it slide. I don't care if it's Chinatown or on Riverside.”

 

_Sticky fingers covered in warm blood. Cold feet in wet boots.  Aborted moans as the bed creaked.  Rain pattering on slate roofs. Marsala and saffron rice. Cold metal stock of rifle butts that left bruises. Scarred chest and slim hips beneath his hands. Dark pencil under Clint’s eyes.  Spicy Korean barbeque._

 

He clenched his fists and breathed through the sharp pain of memories.

 

“I don't have any reasons, I left them all behind. I'm in a New York state of mind.”

 

_Muddy road, artillery booming overhead.  A broken wall, German sniper in the trees.  A Parisian cafe, piano player in the corner.  Army tent, snores from the next bunk. H.Y.D.R.A. base, a rifle in his hand._

 

“I'm just taking a Greyhound on the Hudson River line cause I'm in a New York state of mind.”

 

_Sirens blaring, a tiny city apartment. Swallowed moans, a rainy back alley. Guitar strumming, a campfire and shared blanket. Whispered pleas, a creaky bed frame and thin mattress. Russian words, a chair with metal restraints._

 

“You need to wake up, Steve.”

 

Leaning against the wall, Bucky closed his eyes.

 

“Life’s grey for people like us; we need you with your clear view of right and wrong.  We’ll get lost in yesterday and not find our way to today.”

 

Something cracked, deep, at his very foundation, shaking Bucky from feet to head to hands. 

 

“Natasha won’t say and Bucky won’t even think it, but they need you. You’re a lucky s.o.b. to have those two, so you better take care of them or I’ll … we’ll I’m not sure what I can do to you, but I’ll be very put out.” 

 

God, even Clint’s chuckle made his fingers tremble as he reached for the book that threatened to slip out of his grasp.

 

“Yeah, enough of that.  Bruce was right; this place makes too good a confessional. Better not get started or I’ll be here all night and, if you can hear me, well, there are some stories that never need to be told.”

 

Bucky knew some of those stories, had lived through them by Clint’s side, and Clint was right. Steve could never know what they’d done, the deaths and blood and violence. But the rest?  What was he supposed to do with the laughter, the trust and love?

 

“There is a house in New Orleans they call the Rising Sun. It’s been the ruin of many a poor boy, and God, I know I’m one.”[3]

 

He slid down to the floor, dropped his head back, unwilling to fight it anymore, and let the memories come.

 

“Oh mother, tell your children not to do what I have done. Spend your lives in sin and misery in the House of the Rising Sun.”

 

Just under six hours later, Steve woke to find Tony working on his tablet, Jarvis playing big band tunes.  He was up and walking in less than 80 minutes; all the Avengers and what felt like half of S.H.I.E.L.D. were gathered in the conference room fifty-three minutes later, debating and arguing and rehashing what had happened and what it meant. 

 

When Clint slipped out the side door, Bucky noticed because he’d been watching for it.  Beside him, Natasha shared a concerned glance that said she’s seen it too.  And across the room, Steve’s brow furrowed and he clenched his jaw, all too aware of Barton’s retreat.

 

 

##  BUCKY, JAMES, & (THE SOLDIER)

 

**“Желание.”**

 

They took Clint right off the street, a smooth snatch and grab perfectly planned at the height of rush hour when the sidewalk was crowded with people going home from work or out to dinner.  Even with four different camera views, Jarvis couldn’t get a view of the two men, their faces hidden by their hoodies.  Clint was walking, shopping bags in hand, then he stumbled and was hustled into a storefront that, on closer inspection, had been empty for over a year.  No one missed him for over three hours until he didn’t show up for pizza with Bruce and Tony. 

 

For four days, they had no clues.

 

**“Ржавый.”**

 

The video link came to the Avengers fan account email, the one manned by S.H.I.E.L.D. to watch for crazies and, as far as any of them could tell, create Buzzfeed quizzes about which superhero were you going to marry and pretty good memes of the team as cats. A simple static camera showed Clint standing in a concrete block room with no distinguishing characteristics, he was wearing just his jeans and holding a current day’s edition of the _New York Times_.  Blossoms of black and purple sprouted on his chest, one whole side of his face puffy and four different shades of red.

 

“Hey, guys. Vacation’s going well. Wish you were here.”  He didn’t flinch when the muzzle of an uzi appeared, pointed at his head. “Right. Get on with it. Seems they want to make you sweat … pretty sure that’s not what they have in mind for me … so they’ll contact you with further demands.  Think of this as a teaser trailer.”

 

That was the entirety of the message. Tony used all his programs and Jarvis’ machinations, but there was nothing to glean, no sounds in the background or secret signals.  They tracked the IP address to an empty building twenty miles outside of Sucre, Bolivia, but found nothing.

 

**“Семнадцать.”**

 

Thirty-two hours later, a second one appeared, a link sent to Tony’s private phone.

 

This time, Clint was on his knees.  Sluggishly bleeding slashes covered his arms, and his words were mangled and slurred.

 

“Me again. Having loads of fun hanging with the guys. Thing is, they want to trade me for the Winter Soldier. Bad idea, I told ‘em, but they insist. File this under careful what you wish for, eh?”  


A blackjack cracked across his ribs; he bent double and a line of red spittle dropped on the floor.

 

“Okay, yeah. They say …”  He coughed and spat more blood. “Three days. He’ll know where. Be here or I won’t. It’s a trap, of course, but subtly isn’t their … ”

 

The camera cut out abruptly.

 

“Jesus, Clint” Sam breathed the words. “Did you see his face? And his arms?”

 

“Jarvis is working on a location; they bounced off of at least sixteen different towers, but if we use a repeater …”  Tony trailed off as he focused on his tablet.

 

Standing in the corner, the Soldier stirred, shifted in his body. Memories were pulled from storage and correlated.  Situational awareness rose as he watched the replay. Every twitch of blue-grey eyes, inflection of the half-mumbled words, he parsed and pulled apart.  Then he went back to the first message and did the same.  Vacation. Sweat. Plan. Hanging. Careful. Wish. Three days. Trap.

 

As he ran the options, he ignored the chaos around him, cold calm rising to the surface.

 

**“Рассвет.”**

 

“You leave this Tower, I’ll put you on the most wanted list myself,” Fury threatened. “This is a S.H.I.E.L.D. operation, Rogers, and you will stand down.”

 

“Or what?”  Steve stepped closer, got right in Fury’s face. “I don’t work for you anymore, Nick, thank God.  The Avengers are free agents, and we take care of our own”

 

“You and Stark go crashing in there and create an international incident, you’ll bring this whole house of cards down.  North Korea’s as off-limits as you can get,” Fury said. “The Security Council can get us permission to enter their airspace, but only if we don’t grandstand and do it quietly.”

 

“You’re crazier than I thought if you believe that,” Tony joined in the fight. “H.Y.D.R.A. and North Korea working together? And someone in the W.S.C. just happens to be able to get permission?  Yeah, and I’ve got a bridge to sell you.”

 

“We don’t have time for this,” Bruce argued. “We know where the text came from and we’re going.”

 

“Barton said it’s a trap,” Fury reminded them.  “You go barrelling in there …”

 

“We kick their asses from here to Sunday, trap or no trap,” Tony finished.  “Fuck this conversation.  Whoever’s with me, let’s go.” 

 

Vacation. Sweat. Plan. Hanging. Careful. Wish. Three days. Trap.

 

The Soldier watched the others go, the noise receding as they left the room. Somewhere, deep inside the dark pockets in his soul, a fire kindled, long banked but coming back to life, a line of gunpowder that led straight to Clint Barton.

 

He knew where he had to go.

 

**“Печь.”**

 

“You really think you’re going to do this alone?” 

 

Natalia waited at the quinjet; in a simple black tac suit, she was armed to the teeth and deadly lethal, one of James’ favorite looks.

 

The Soldier didn’t break stride. “Need a pilot.” 

 

“And someone to watch your back.” Rogers was sitting in the co-pilot seat, dressed in his stealth suit, bandolier filled with ammunition crisscrossing his chest.  “It’s a trap, after all.”

 

“No.”  Worry stirred up shame, shame led to emotion, and emotion was a distraction.

 

Natalia raised an eyebrow but didn’t say anything.

 

“Going to have to throw me off this ship then.”  Rogers calmly began the pre-flight check. “What’s the destination?”

 

“No.”  He drew on every ounce of ice left in him, ruthlessly shoved everything else into the burgeoning flames.

 

“Stop arguing. Clint needs us. Sit your ass down and tell us where to go,” Rogers ordered.

 

The sniper’s name was Clint. They had Clint, were hurting him.  Cryo, pain, the chair, loss: none of it mattered.  Not even the fear of Steve finding out, of seeing exactly what he was.  Clint needed the Soldier, and the Soldier was going to save him at any cost.

 

“43.6150° N, 116.2023° W.  North Five Mile, near the Mill Iron Stables.”

 

Settling in her chair, Natalia glanced over her shoulder as if waiting for more information.  When she saw his face, her eyes widened just a fraction. 

 

“ETA two hours and fourteen minutes.”

 

**“Девять.”**

 

He didn’t need a plan; four shots, four guards down, he kicked in the front door of the industrial steel building and stormed the lobby.  With each pull of the trigger, the Soldier stretched and filled his skin, shaking off the stupor he’d fallen into. No need to stop, he knew exactly where he was going, who would know where they were keeping Clint in the byzantine underground part of the complex. 

 

Each bullet was a kill shot, double tap that made sure they stayed down.  Blood and brain matter flew but he didn’t pause, clearing the area before hitting the stairwell and heading down.  Awareness extended, peripheral vision letting him know the other two’s positions; they trailed on either side, forming a vee that drove through the line of guards awaiting them on the second basement level.  Shield spin down the hall, bouncing off the concrete walls like a marble in a pinball machine, bumping into three guards before zipping back to its owner.  The soldier ricocheted shots off the curve of metal, angling them into doorways, taking out targets before they left the rooms. In minutes, all H.Y.D.R.A. agents on the floor were dead.

 

**“Добросрдечный.”**

 

The man stumbled over the Russian word, pronunciation garbled, accent atrocious.  Sobbing, he fell back against the desk, tried to scramble over it, ended up trapped between the chair and the wall.

 

“Oh God, what’s the next word?  Fucking language, I can’t …”

 

Metal fingers wrapped around his neck and hoisted him up.

 

“I don’t know, okay?  Honestly, they brought him through and I haven’t seen him since.  He’s not in this building, I swear!” 

 

Plates clicked as they shifted, tightened.

 

“I’m telling the fucking truth! I don’t …”

 

Squeezing harder, the Soldier didn’t blink.

 

“The … garage … bay … under … hoist … entrance …”

 

He let the unconscious body fall then shot twice. Turning, he walked past the others without looking at their faces.

 

**“возвращение на родину.”**

 

The narrow metal stairs circled; one at a time they descended, the Captain with his shield in front, the Soldier’s rifle firing over the edge, the Widow’s bites darting around their sides.  The guards that waited were no simple hired guns; these were battle-tested and trained. The fight was pitched and vicious; the Soldier took the blows, felt the bullet rip through his skin and tear muscle, but kept going, leaving a swath of dead and dying bodies in his wake. 

 

“All this for an archer?” one of the men asked. Kneeling, holding a broken arm, bleeding from wounds too deep to be anything but mortal, he grinned at the Soldier, wildness in his eyes. “They’re going to make you pay.  First order will be to kill the others then they’ll turn you loose on the world to …”

 

Two shots echoed and Natalia lowered her gun. “Clint loves villains who monologue,” she said. “I hate it.”

 

**“Один.”**

 

“Move another step and I shoot.” 

 

Johann Schmidt stood, gun muzzle resting just above Clint’s right ear.

 

“I knew you’d come. Zola was a brilliant scientist, for all his other faults. Such an easy fail safe he created; all I need to know is which person you’ve keyed on and you’re mine to control.”

 

Red dripped from Clint’s brow, his arms wrenched behind his back, held with hard iron manacles, chain linked through a circle on the floor.  Clouded eyes, pain etched in the red rims, looked up at the Soldier, and he grinned, fresh blood welling up from his cracked lips.

 

“There you are.” Clint coughed and it rattled in his chest. “Took you long enough. Did you stop for drive-thru? I could use an In-n-Out burger.”

 

“Such people you connect with, broken souls and deluded minds. Not that you love them, of course; it’s all part of your programming. Weaken the enemy by making them care about you. Ingenious, no?” 

 

Schmidt’s words were calculated knife strikes at his heart, slashes of doubt meant to feed the self-loathing so carefully cultivated by H.Y.D.R.A., the Russians, the Red Room, the Germans … all of them.  They cut him to the core, biting into the darkest parts of his psyche, filleting him bare to the harsh glare of Schmidt’s reality.

 

“You’re lying.”  The Captain, so sure, so trusting.  Forgiving Bucky for all the atrocities. Tying him back together with the ribbon of his love. “Don’t listen to him, Buck.”

 

“You know nothing.”  The Widow, so beautiful, so deadly. Saving James so many times when he should have died. Coiling her love around him until he was right again.  “James is more than what you made him.”

 

“You’re so full of shit.”  The Sniper, so funny, so intuitive. Waiting patiently for the Soldier who never remembered. Lighting the fuse of his anger by loving him as he was. “He’s going to kick your ass.”

 

“I am going to enjoy this,” Schmidt said.  “Are you ready, Soldat?”

 

**“Rрузовой вагон.”**

 

“Mission report.”

 

The explosion in his head shook him to his core, tension unspooling, every piece blown apart.  For a heartbeat, he was nothing, nobody. He didn’t exist, he couldn’t remember, he didn’t know.  Then they wove through the bits and began knitting him together, pulling in tight the debris, making sense of the chaos. The noose of words loosened, the ice broke, and he was all.

 

“Fuck you.”

 

Schmidt’s eyes widened.

 

“That should have worked! Why didn’t …”

 

 Two shots echoed and Schmidt tumbled to the floor, bullet holes perfectly centered between his eyes.

 

“Told you.” Clint spat on the body. “What a fucking idiot.” 

 

“He’s not Schmidt.” Natasha bent over the body; her fingers tugged the edge of the mask, pulling it up to reveal white skin underneath. 

 

Wrenching the chain from the floor, he broke it with a simple twist of his metal hand then leaned down, tilted Clint’s head up and kissed him. Both of them were smiling when they broke apart.

 

“God, I’d forgotten how fucking hot you are,”  Clint said as Natasha helped him up; she ran her fingers along his cheek ever so gently, her face settling in a grim line.

 

“Misha, you really are a mess, aren’t you?”  Natasha pressed her lips to his. “Your smart mouth is going to get you in trouble one of these days.”

 

“You like me because I’m a scoundrel,” he told her. “You have a type, darlin’.”

 

“We’ve got incoming.”  Steve leaned towards the door; footsteps echoed in the hall. Clint held out his hand; one finger was crooked, another swollen, but he could hold the gun passed to him. “You up for this?”

 

“Hell, yes. I’ve got some debts to repay.” 

 

The way out was bloodier than the way in; troops appeared in armor, landing punches that would have taken down lesser men. Steve charged in with nothing but his fists; Clint looped the shield over his arm and used it as protective cover and bashing weak points with the edge.  Natasha was an avenging angel, electric charges dancing along the lines of their breastplates, forcing them to yank their helmets off.  They fought their way through and up the stairs, out onto the parking lot where Tony came swooping down, dropping Bruce who swiftly changed into the Hulk.  Thor and Sam flew into the action and the battle, pitched and bloody, left bodies strewn across the asphalt when it finally ended.

 

“Hey.” Natasha sat down beside him. She was favoring her left leg and had a long gash on her cheek; she’d gratefully let Sam take the controls of the jet, downing some pain killers and breaking one of the ice packets for her knee.

 

“Hey.”  Exhaustion weighed his limbs, his mind slowing now that the adrenaline was wearing off.

 

She nodded across the jet where Clint was bandaged and medicated to the gills, leaning his head on Steve’s shoulder, curled tight into his warmth. Arm wrapped around Clint’s sleeping form, Steve tucked the blanket in tighter. Not a word of judgment, no recriminations or lectures, Steve had been right beside them the whole way, fighting for the same purpose.  For all his worries that knowing would drive Steve away, the rescue had done the exact opposite -- brought them all closer together.

 

Clint fidgeted, frowning and mumbling, brow furrowing.  Fingers finding an unmarred patch of skin, Steve began to draw circles with a gentle touch, murmuring in Clint’s ear, soothing him back to sleep.  For a second, Steve’s eyes met theirs; the smile that unfurled on his lips was soft and tentative.

 

Natasha raised an eyebrow; Steve shrugged one shoulder. 

 

“That’s new,” Bucky said.

 

“But not unexpected,” she answered.

 

* * *

 

# NOW

* * *

## JAMES BUCHANAN “BUCKY” BARNES, AKA THE WINTER SOLDIER

 

“Hey, Clint,” Steve called from the doorway.  “There’s a John Ford retrospective at the Film Forum this Saturday:  _Rio Grande_ , _How Green My Valley_ , _Stagecoach_ , and _The Searchers_. You interested?”  

 

Clint hit pause on the game and tilted his head, looking over the back of the couch.  “You like westerns?”  he asked.  “I didn’t know that.”

 

“Yeah, Stevie was a huge Gary Cooper fan; we snuck in to see _Sergeant York_ , what, three times?”  Bucky said.  “Pretty sure he jerked off in the shower thinking about Randolph Scott.”

 

“Shall I tell him about you and Cary Grant?” Steve shot back with a grin; he dropped into a Brooklyn accent and mimicked,  “Oh, he’s okay, I guess.”

 

“Hell, if I’d have known he was gay, I’d have been all over that.” James shrugged.  “Wouldn’t have minded being his guy Friday.”

 

“Yeah, okay, I’d love to go.” Clint bounced on the cushion.  “There was this theater in the town the circus wintered in, used to show John Wayne flicks all the time so I’ve seen _The Searchers_ , but not the others.  You guys can fill me in on what I need to know.”

 

“Nah, man, I’m out.”  Bucky winked at Steve over Clint’s head. “Not my cup of tea.”

 

“We’ll leave at 11 a.m., grab some lunch first. Burgers okay? There’s a great diner just around the corner,” Steve said.

 

“Oooh, diner food too?  This is shaping up to be a red letter day,” Clint replied.

 

“Good. It’s a date then.” 

 

Clint’s jaw dropped, and he stared after Steve as he left.

 

“Wait, wait.  Did he just ask me out?  Do I have a date with Captain America?” Clint asked.

 

“Sounds like it,” James said.

 

“Holy hell. I have a date with Captain America. To see Westerns. And have burgers.” He danced around, punching the air. “I have a date with Cap,” he sing-songed. “I have a date with Cap.” 

 

“God, you are such a goofball, Barton.” 

 

“And you love it.” 

 

There was nothing to do but curl his fist in the fabric of Clint’s shirt, yank him over, and kiss him right there on the couch.

 

“Indeed I do, asshole.  Indeed I do.”

 

* * *

 

 

Clint Barton is a tire fire, a man who lives a chaotic life and has the epitome of a tragic backstory.  And yet, he is patience personified, capable of a depth of love that put to lie his own self-deprecating humor.  He makes people smile, doesn’t judge based on the past, and never questions the present.  He’s Natasha’s partner, the creativity to her determination; they dance together in fluid lines that run deep between them. He understands Steve, talks to him, makes him laugh, gets him to open up. He fits so perfectly, locking into place like he’s always been there, eyes up high, watching their six and protecting their every move.

 

Bucky loves him because he’s funny as hell and kisses like he was drowning.  James loves him because he’s a matched set with Natasha and kicks his ass routinely at the range and in video games. The Soldier doesn’t just love Clint, he adores him in the way a dying man values every second he’s alive; Clint is life and laughter and lust rolled up into one deadly package.

 

And Clint, well, who knows why Clint loves them?  Must just be his brand of crazy.

 

* * *

 

 

“What the fucking hell did they expect us to do?”  Steve smashed a fist into the wall, leaving a large dent. “World Security Council?  They don’t give a shit about the world, just their own interests.” 

 

“Hey.” Natasha ducked under that reach and planted her hands on his chest. “Not worth it, Steve. Those assholes aren’t worth it.”

 

He heaved a sigh, fight draining out of him, and rested a hand near the dent, shifting his weight and dropping his forehead to hers.

 

“They are so short-sighted, Nat.  The damage that this stupid policy will cause …”

 

“Want me to take ‘em out?” James wrapped his arms around Steve’s waist and nuzzled his nose in the soft hairs at the nape of Steve’s neck. “Twenty hours top. No problem.”

 

Shoulders relaxed and Steve chuckled. “You just want an excuse to miss Tony’s Gala thing tonight.”

 

“Two birds, one stone, babe.”  He licked that spot just behind Steve’s ear, the one that made him shiver and lose his inhibitions. “Well, Six birds.  There’s five on the council, right?”

 

“Ah.” Steve exhaled as Natasha kissed along his jaw, working her way down to his collarbone.  “Double-teaming me. I see what you’re doing.”

 

“I certainly hope so.” Natasha’s smile turned sultry. “Or I’d worry about all that porn watching you do on the internet. Cocky boys indeed.”

 

“What? I …”  Steve melted as Natasha turned his head so James could access that eminently kissable mouth. “... don’t …”

 

“Un huh.”  She slowly dropped to her knees. “Got a thing for blow jobs, do you, Rogers?”

 

James’ unbuckled his belt and unzipped his pants, sliding them down with his hands so Natasha had complete access.

 

“Just …”  Steve groaned at the first lick. “Don’t know enough … wanna learn …”

 

“Been doing your research, Stevie?  Wanna know how to suck hard enough to make me come?  Just where to put your tongue to make Nat scream?” he murmured in Steve’s ear.

 

“Oh, God. I …” Steve’s head fell back on James’ shoulder as he shuddered, Natasha’s lips parting and sliding down his length.

 

“Isn’t she gorgeous?  God, Stevie, the two of you, So perfect together.”  His own cock stirred and he pressed against Steve’s back, rolling his hips for the delicious feel of friction. “Don’t have to worry, babe. Just want you, that’s all that matters.”

 

Steve didn’t last long; once Nat set her sights on something, she chased it to the end.  All too soon, Steve bowed his back and groaned, all boneless and relaxed in James’ grip.

 

“You know those videos aren’t real,” Natasha said. She rose gracefully and caught his lips for a long kiss. “If there’s something you want to try, just ask.”

 

“Ummm.”  Steve slid his arms around her. “Well, then …”  He picked her up, spun them around and pressed her back into James’ arms. “Wanna watch my best girl and best guy together if that’s okay.” 

 

“Oh, yeah,”  James snuck his own Steve kiss. “We can do that.”

 

* * *

 

 

Natasha Romanoff aka Natalia Romanova has been broken and remade more times than even she remembers, and, yet, she loves with the same fierceness that she fights with, fiery and passionate to the end.  With Steve, she mirrors his drive, the realist to his idealism, and he makes her believe there’s good in this world. Clint, well, they’re equals, sharing tragedies and blood-soaked history; somehow he can still make her giggle like the schoolgirl she never was with just a silly grin. She’s the lynchpin in their grenade, the metal rod that holds them together, always in the middle, fighting back-to-back, pirouetting on a dime when they needed to change.

 

Bucky loves her because her beauty belies her strength, and he’s always had a thing for women who could kick his ass.  The Soldier loves her because she knows everything and still touches him with gentle caresses, heedless of the blood that stains his soul. And James … Natalia is his life, his core, the compass that never waivers from true North. 

 

As to why Natasha loves them, well, she says something about ledgers and children and never gives the same answer twice.

 

* * *

 

 

A bead of sweat slid over the curve of Clint’s cheek and he closed his eyes and rocked with each thrust, pushing back as Steve snapped his hips forward, driving deeper inside, wringing little moans from Clint’s throat. Hair fell over his eyes and his mouth hung open, panting breaths tumbling out as he balanced on his hands and knees.

 

Lying flat on his back, Bucky groaned and arched his back, hips lifting as Natasha plunged down, riding him hard and fast, keeping pace with Steve.  Buried deep in her, barely able to breathe, he was close to his orgasm, muscles tightening, his cock aching. All he needed was one little thing; curling his metal hand into Clint’s hair, he held him still and surged up onto his elbow, kissing Clint with abandon, plundering his mouth and swallowing the sounds they made as they came.

 

Sated and lethargic, Bucky was content to watch the rest of the proceedings, holding out his arm when Clint admitted defeat and collapsed on top of Bucky’s warm body.  Natasha was luminous when she came, head thrown back, body bowed up, Steve’s head between her legs, chasing every drop of her.  When Clint peeled away for the bathroom, Natasha following, they left the door open and, in the mirror, Bucky saw their embrace, the slow easy kiss of longtime lovers in the aftermath of a day spent in bed.

 

“I’m half afraid to sleep.” Steve stretched out beside him, propped up an elbow, laying on one side, eyes drawn to the same scene. “Might wake up and this is all a dream.”

 

“Know the feeling.”  Bucky ran his fingers over Steve’s shoulder. “Pretty sure this isn’t real, me getting to touch you.” 

 

“All you want, Buck.  Any time.”  Steve dipped his head then they were the ones kissing until they felt the bed dip and broke apart.

 

“Don’t stop on our account.” Clint sprawled out on his stomach, wadding up a pillow to tuck under his head. “Normal human here is going to crash; you super soldiers go on with round three. Won’t bother me a bit.”

 

Natasha snorted, nudged him with her knee and crawled into the valley between him and Bucky.  “With your snoring?  Kind of kills the mood.”

 

“I do not snore.”  Clint, indignant, lifted his head. “Steve, do I snore?” 

 

“If you sleep on your back.  but so does Nat.” She raised one eyebrow Steve’s direction; Steve immediately backpedaled.  “I mean, it’s not loud or anything. Very endearing. Really. Am I right, Buck?”

 

“Keep digging your own hole, Rogers.”  He rolled on his side and spooned up to Steve; he could rest his hand on Clint’s arm if he reached across Nat.

 

“Told you he was the smart one,” Clint mumbled.

 

Bucky was the last to drift off, the tangle of bodies warm and comforting.

 

* * *

 

 

The thing about Steve Rogers, he’s still that scrawny kid from Brooklyn who wants what he wants and, stubborn and determined, always seems to get it. Whatever he does, he throws his whole soul into it, ripping his chest open and giving his heart with abandon. He’s broken through Natasha’s walls by trusting her from day one and loves her without reservation.  Steve pursued Clint, much to his surprise, with the same relentless drive he used to break through the Soldier’s programming and bring Bucky back. He’s the leader, always out front, but he’s never alone; once he realized that, he fits seamlessly into weft and weave of the four of them.

 

The Soldier loves Steve because he knows him, a memory so deep and powerful he woke from decades of sleep to protect him.  James loves him because Steve doesn’t ask even though he knows the answers, never expects him to be anything but what he is, and Natasha trusts him which is enough on its own.

 

Simply put, Steve is Bucky’s whole world. He’s known times without Steve, long, dark, cold days of blood and despair.  Times when he couldn’t touch him, aching years of denial and frustration.  And now that he has Steve, no mind wiping chair or icy dark cryo or shadows of pain or self-inflicted wound can make him let go.

 

And Steve loves them because they see him for what he is, not Captain America or a super-soldier or a national icon. They know the man underneath the uniform and never let him take himself too seriously.

 

* * *

 

 

“It’s something I needed to do alone.”

 

“Thing is, you don’t have to.”

 

He sweats in the midday sun, finger slick on the trigger, sweat on his lashes as he stares through the rifle scope.  A figure in red, white, and blue jumps out of the way before an arrow hits the H.Y.D.R.A. soldier, an EMP pulse powering down the armor, trapping the man inside.  A blur of red hair, blue sparks flying, and he fires, bullet dancing through her hair and hitting the soldier about to shoot her. Flashes of green, red and gold, silver wings, spinning hammer … they dance together in deadly formation, fighting and winning. 

 

He remembers everything.  Brooklyn and the Howling Commandos and the Red Room and H.Y.D.R.A. and the Avengers. Zola and Drakov and Pierce and Zemo. Coney Island and Moscow and Istanbul.  Steve’s mother’s name, Natasha’s ballet debut, and Clint’s favorite noodle dish.

 

He’s Bucky and James and The Soldier, and he loves all three of them without boundaries because they love him for all his pieces and parts and past.

 

 

 

In the end, that’s all he needs to know.

 

[1] _The Irony of Fate, or Enjoy Your Bath!_ A 1976 movie that used to be shown every year on Russian TV.

[2] If you’ve never heard Jeremy Renner sing _New York State of Mind_ , there’s a number of versions on youtube.  This is one of my favorites. <https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UsYXzAWuX0Y>

[3] <https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3b7EV4XZuMY>

**Author's Note:**

> The Russian words are the trigger words from CACW.


End file.
